Bergen County, New Jersey
Charles Mpassi stepped out of the Cadillac Escalade. The wind had picked up in the last ten minutes. It was now whipping across the runway in erratic bursts that lifted the edge of his raincoat and sent it snapping behind him. It had taken longer than expected for the Gulfstream to get its takeoff clearance. Apparently, the controllers who oversaw one of the nearby airport’s approach and departure airspace had abruptly lost contact with several airplanes for more than ninety seconds, which had thrown a wrench into all the scheduled flights coming into or out of all the airports around the city.
Mpassi watched as the Gulfstream G550 finally accelerated down the runway, its engines roaring as it lifted into the gray sky.
Westcott was gone, and so was Mpassi’s patience with the man.
Everett Westcott, for all his intelligence and influence, was still a man shackled by romantic ideals. He spoke of universal health care as if it was a birthright. He believed, truly believed, that his wife’s dream for the Democratic Republic of the Congo could be achieved through diplomacy, infrastructure, and the displacement of tens of thousands of people.
And the curated death of a few hundred.
Mpassi shook his head in disgust. As if by pouring enough clean water and electricity into the veins of the DRC, his nation’s heart would start beating in rhythm like it was a Western country. It was noble. It was commendable.
But it was utterly naive.
Mpassi knew better. He had seen his country gutted from the inside. First by warlords, then by the generals, and finally by the glossy foreign aid apparatus, which gave the country just enough to ease the world’s conscience. Westcott didn’t understand how power truly worked in the DRC. He thought leverage came from policy and partnerships and maybe a little blackmail. But in Kinshasa, power came from fear.
Yes, Westcott had married a Congolese woman, but that didn’t make him Congolese.
Mpassi pulled out his encrypted phone and dialed. The line clicked once before it connected.
“Is it done?” asked President Mutombo, his voice laced with anticipation.
“Not yet,” Mpassi said, glancing at the Gulfstream’s receding silhouette. “Soon. How are things on your end?”
“Everything is ready. We will see this through,” Mutombo said. “Just as I promised you a year ago.”
Mpassi smiled. He’d always liked Mutombo. Not for his charisma, which was lacking, or for his intellect, which was average at best, but because the man had learned to listen. He understood that true progress in the DRC didn’t require idealism, but required pragmatism.
And pragmatism required sacrifice.
“Are you sure you don’t need more time?” Mpassi asked more out of caution than doubt.
“I don’t need more time,” Mutombo said. “We’re ready to vote Hearts United’s initiative down.”
“Good,” he said, then ended the call.
It had taken him years of patient maneuvering to position himself as the éminence grise behind every decision. Now, with a single vote, Westcott’shumanitarian pipeline in the DRC would collapse. And in the chaos that would follow, the contracts would shift to consulting firms and local logistics companies owned primarily by Chinese interests, while others were shell entities under Mpassi’s control. Westcott didn’t know it, but he had already built the infrastructure of Mpassi’s future fortune. The hydroelectric project would still happen—part of it, anyway—but the spoils wouldn’t go toward hospitals; they’d be routed through state-run procurement firms and siphoned into the hands of Mpassi’s loyalists.
He had no shame in admitting it. He wanted it all. The money, and the power. He’d finally get the respect he’d never been given by the Europeans, the Americans, and even by his own generals back in the days when he wore a uniform and ran protection for war criminals. He’d played the part of the quiet operator long enough.
Now it was his turn. But first, he had to take care of one important detail.
He dialed another number, and without even a hint of hesitation, he pressed the call button.
Everett Westcott drank the last of his first single malt as the Gulfstream continued its climb through the congested airspace over New York. He looked out the window. The city lights of Manhattan were still visible, and from this altitude, Westcott thought they looked like a circuit board. He had always liked the view from above, because from up in the sky, the world never looked angry or broken. It looked composed. Manageable.
He pondered if he should have another drink or not. He knew he should try to sleep, and like his wife had told him many times, he slept better when he had nothing to drink.
Westcott smiled. He knew Nailah only said that because she couldn’t sleep when he snored. But this was his jet, and apart from thetwo pilots and the lone flight attendant, there was no one else on the plane. So, who cared if he snored? He’d have another drink.
Westcott stood and walked to the flight attendant, who was still strapped into her jump seat.
“What was it you gave me? Macallan?”
“Yes, sir. Eighteen year.”
He nodded. It wasn’t his favorite, but close enough.
